


The Sleeping One

by raiyana



Series: The Reader Inserts [9]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Tumblr: ImaginexHobbit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-12 04:22:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11729409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: You knewofhim, of course,everyoneknew who Dwalin Fundinul was; Thorin's best friend and loyal guard, Captain of the Guard of Thorinuldûm, nobledwarf, and a Son of Durin's Line. He was also one of the most handsome dwarrow you'd ever laid eyes on - and as a barmaid in the busiest tavern in Ered Luin, you'd seen A LOT of dwarrow.You'd met before, though your interactions had been limited to the likes of "More ale?" and "Aye, lass, and plenty of it, if you please." plus one memorable instance of "Hold still while I bandage that arm, Lord Fundinul!"...This did not prepare you for waking up in his arms one night, in the middle of nowhere while on a Quest to reclaim the Arkenstone.





	1. Chapter 1

You drifted awake slowly, feeling surprisingly warm and comfortable in the chilly spring morning. Along your back lay a nice warm cushion, and even your nose felt warm, resting on the lovely pillow beneath your head. It was firm but soft and it smelled…woodsy. _Why did your pillow smell?_ You wondered, but your brain drowsily informed you that you were camped in the woods, what else would your pillow smell like besides woods and a hint of smoke? Thus, satisfied that you had made sense of your surroundings, you kept drifting.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” someone exclaimed, the words drifting vaguely through your haze. Your pillow rose slightly, in time with the breeze that ruffled your hair.

“Should we try to wake him?” someone else asked, beginning to break through your fog. You frowned. _Couldn’t these dwarrow see that you were busy sleeping?!_

“I don’t see how we can save her,” the first voice whispered. “What if he comes out of it badly?”

“Ssshhh,” you hissed and the voices shut up, letting you fall back into the nice sleepy fog of lying on Dwalin’s chest.

Wait.

Your mind quickly rewound that, growing more alert by the second. Woodsy smell, moving pillow, _Dwalin’s chest… oh, Mahal, Sulladad, and Kementari help you._

You blinked slowly. Green met your eyes, your face pressed too closely against Dwalin’s chest to see anything but the colour of his tunic. The warm cushion along your back was obviously his arm, and you blushed fiercely – glad your face was hidden against his chest – when you realised how _intimately_ your legs were tangled with his.

Twisting your neck to peer sideways, you caught sight of Balin’s worried face.

“I’m sorry lass, he was too quick for us,” he admitted sheepishly. You glared. “It’s when the battle-dreams take him, you see, normally he curls up with one of his axes or I have to wake him by tossing my boot at him… but when he started to move that way, one of his arms flopped out and found your hair… and, well,” he paused, embarrassed, “I’m not sure it’d be safe for you if we wake him,” Balin whispered, “He tends to wake up… violently.” You shuddered at those words, while Balin grimaced. The only other dwarf awake was Thorin, and you really wished it had been anyone else on watch, feeling more than a little humiliated for the both of you to be caught like this… _cuddling_ … by your King. Your face once more flaming with embarrassment, you returned to your previous position, wondering if it was possible to die of mortification.

“Don’t worry,” Thorin Oakenshield said, his voice a quiet rumble by the fire as he lay down, letting Balin take the last watch. “Dwalin would never hurt you.”

“I know…” but that’s when Dwalin is _awake_ , you didn’t add. Thorin probably knew it anyway, having spent more time in Dwalin’s company than anyone else. Dwalin might never _wish_ to hurt you, you were absolutely sure of that, but his arms would be capable of doing a lot of damage even to a frame as sturdy as yours.

 _At least I’m not cold_ , you thought, trying to look at the good side of your predicament in an effort to stave off panic. _He does smell quite nice_ , you thought, feeling the fog of sleep sneaking up on you once more. Burrowing deeper into Dwalin’s hold without even realising it, you sighed softly.

 

Dwalin felt comfortable. His arms were wrapped around the most beautiful dam he’d ever had the pleasure of meeting, her little mewl-like snores as adorable as she was. He could feel every curve of her, wedged tightly along the length of him, as though she had been cold and sought his heat for comfort. The thought elicited a smug male pride. _She picked meeeee_ , his heart crowed. Dwalin smiled, sleepily nuzzling against the top of her head as he wondered what it would feel like to braid her hair. A vision came to him then, all her hair unbound, the only covering for her nakedness as she walked to him, letting him touch _everything_. Dwalin groaned, waking himself up from his lovely dream with the sound.

_It was not a dream._

Looking down the length of his body, _she_ was definitely tangled up with him, his personal _goddess_ was in his arms. Dwalin froze, panicked. _What in the name of Mahal’s beard had happened last night?_


	2. Chapter 2

“Awake, nadad?” Balin whispered, trying not to wake Geisli, who seemed to be asleep once more. “Can you let her go now?” he continued, when Dwalin simply stared at him, panic clear in his grey eyes. “Let go of Geisli, Dwalin, slowly,” Balin coaxed, relieved when his younger brother followed the calm instructions, even if his arms seemed reluctant to let go of Geisli’s curves. The dam’s brows furrowed in sleep, snuffling unhappily when Dwalin moved.

“What… what happened, Balin?” Dwalin asked, more than a little overwhelmed.

“You were dreaming… and you rolled the wrong way, catching a lock of her hair instead of your axe…” Balin’s cheeks flushed, “I didn’t even have time to wake you before you’d curled up with her, as if she was Grasper,” he admitted, sheepishly. Dwalin blanched. “No, no, you didn’t hurt her,” Balin soothed, unable to mask the clear relief he felt at being able to say that, remembering instances of torn bedding and ruptured pillows from years past. “Thorin and I thought it best to leave her with you,” Balin sighed, “we worried you might lash out if we tried to untangle your hold. Geisli was kind enough to go along with it.”

 

Dwalin felt petrified. Infinitely carefully, he undid Geisli’s death-grip on his clothes, daring to smooth a golden strand of hair off her face as he slowly moved her away from him. He wanted to keep her, hold her forever if she’d let him, but that was the thing: she _hadn’t_ chosen to sleep in his embrace, and that made the lovely memory of waking up with his face buried in her golden curls oddly tainted. Dwalin felt deeply ashamed of himself. Not only was he still plagued with the battle-dreams that had haunted him for more than a century, but he was also strong enough that he might have inadvertently hurt her – he had socked Balin and Thorin a few times, during the early years, had almost strangled his own brother at one point because he saw nothing but an Orc’s grinning face. Pulling her blankets up over her shoulders, Dwalin blushed; He had rolled himself clear across almost three feet of space to get to her bedroll. His secret infatuation was definitely revealed now, he thought, with a sense of panic.

“All is well, nadad,” Balin said, and it was easy for _him_ to say, _he_ didn’t have to worry about accidentally killing anyone. “I’m sure Geisli won’t hold your unconscious behaviour against you.” As if that helped, when Dwalin surely _would_! Scowling, Dwalin slumped down onto the log next to Balin. Across the camp, Bombur stirred, always first to wake, quietly scrambling with pots and supplies.

 

You stretched slowly, for a moment unaware why you felt surprised to be able to do so. Then the memories of your late night / early morning adventure lined up in clear and vivid colour, once more filling your nose with the smell of Dwalin, a peculiarly enticing mix of the surrounding pine forest, soap – you had crossed a small stream the day before, taking a chance to wash – smoke, and male sweat. Frowning, you realised that you were no longer tangled up with the warrior’s bulk, the surprise making you sit up with a gasp, staring blearily across the camp. Bombur gave you a friendly smile, already starting on getting breakfast made, which you returned with a pale grin of your own. Mornings were never the best of times for you, and the whirling thoughts in your head were not increasing your liking of the far-too-early wakeup.

“Dwalin?” you asked, halfway wondering if you’d dreamt the whole thing. When he stiffened, you noticed Dwalin staring gloomily at the fire. Balin nodded towards you, though you couldn’t hear what he said.

 

The day’s march continued to drag on; your interrupted sleep had made you cranky, though secretly you blamed the sudden feeling of rejection you’d experienced waking up alone. It was silly, you told yourself, but Dwalin had not even looked at you today, as you rode along and you felt somehow slighted by his callous disregard. Sticking next to Dori, for once happy that the oldest ri-brother was so fussy the rest of the Dwarrow tried to avoid being too near him, you struck up a conversation about the art of dyeing cloth. You didn’t have a particular interest in the tailoring trade, though you had once been a weaver, but the conversation was surprisingly interesting, and managed to keep you from glaring at Dwalin’s back all the time. The warrior didn’t notice anything, of course, sullenly sticking by Thorin, a matching pair of dark clouds above their heads as Gandalf once more attempted the futile task of trying to convince Thorin to seek help from Elves. Not even Bofur, who usually managed to make all of you at least chuckle, could coax a smile onto your face, and eventually the rest of the Company realised that you were not in a particularly talkative mood.

“What’d Thorin’s old bear do now, Geis?” Nori asked, the only one who dared shorten your name. He had sent Dori off towards Ori and the princes with a probably-fabricated story of impending mischief and easily taken his place in the line. You shot him a dark scowl that didn’t deter him at all, calmly riding beside you until the silence loosened your tongue. Telling him the whole thing, you were both surprised and grateful that Nori refrained from laughing. “That’s all, you finished. Dwalin did nothing to me.”

“Is that the problem?” Nori smirked, not at all cowed by the dark glare you fixed on him or the wet clump of leaves you dropped on his head. With a light laugh, he rode out of reach, though he kept pace with you as your own dark cloud hung above your head.

Then it started to rain.

You found shelter for the night in a small cave, cramped together but reasonably dry. Everyone quickly changed into drier clothes, leaving your rain proof cloaks to steam gently around the fire as those who did not have chores spread out in their bedrolls to keep warm, letting Bombur and Bilbo get on with supper; a small deer Kíli had shot earlier.

Dori – apparently appeased enough by your earlier conversation to accept whatever influence a barkeep/bouncer might have on Ori – followed Nori in putting his bedroll next to yours, leaving you surrounded by the three brothers. Balin was saying something low and intense to Dwalin, who seemed to be ignoring his brother as much as he had ignored you all day. you didn’t catch the look on his face, the way he half-rose to come speak to you – busy conversing with Ori, telling a tall tale you’d heard at the inn – and you missed the way Nori’s glares almost physically forced him back into his seat. As you went to sleep, comfortably full of Bombur’s savoury stew, you appreciated the silent protection of Nori and his kin. The Stonedancer – Nori’s nickname among your inn’s patrons – had obviously told Dori about Dwalin’s hugging-while-sleeping attempt, you thought, but you silently appreciated his concern. You didn’t wish to wake up sprawled on Dwalin’s broad chest again after all… or did you?


	3. Chapter 3

Every time Dwalin faced you, he would catch your eyes. You could hear him complaining about someone’s knees, but it was lost in sheer terror as you stared at him, the spit revolving slowly, slowly and you almost wished you were there with him, rather than unceremoniously stuffed in this smelly sack. The rough cloth was scratchy, which was an odd thing to care about, but your mind seemed to have taken a brief pause from utter horror and terrifying fear of impending death by troll backside to notice odd and ultimately inconsequential things. For instance, your brain – used to watching Cook spit-roast large things back at the Woolly Bear – told you that that spit was in no way going to cook anything being so far above the fire. On the other hand, it was bound to be a supremely slow and torturous way to die, you thought, for a moment praising yourself lucky to be in aforementioned smelly-and-scratchy sack. Dwalin faced you again. His eyes looked tortured as he stared at you, keeping hold of your gaze until he was turned out of view. He hadn’t spoken three words to you since _that_ morning, and now you wished you had plucked up your courage to talk to him; at least tell him you forgave him for cuddling you in his sleep. For some reason, Thorin kicked Fíli behind you, and when had the Hobbit stood up and begun talking as though the Trolls were capable of higher intelligence? You felt oddly impressed they knew what a pony was called, after all, let alone something like _sage_. Too numb to do more than stare incredulously at the Hobbit, you hardly noticed the ensuing parasite debacle. The spit was no longer turning, you realised with no small amount of horror, just as Gandalf appeared atop a convenient giant boulder and split it in half, bathing you in morning light, a sensation you had almost believed you’d never feel again. _Why were you on this quest again?_ you asked yourself, falling back to stare blindly at the rosy clouds of dawn. _Because Bofur convinced you to go with him to meet Thorin Oakenshield and sign on_ , your mind waspishly told you, _and somehow you found yourself agreeing to join too._

“Geisli!” Someone called; you thought it might be Dwalin. “Are you hurt? Get up, lass, let Óin have a look at you.” Nodding dumbly, walking on feet that did not seem to belong to you, you let Dwalin propel you towards Óin.

“Found your axe, Geis,” Nori said, putting the weapon in your hand. Reality returned slowly.

“No…ri?” you croaked. Your friend nodded, seemingly relieved.

“Aye. You took a wee knock on the head, Geis, but you’ll be fine,” he said, smiling so brightly you knew it was covering up his own fear. You nodded slowly.

“Can I sleep now?” you asked, before sliding into unconsciousness with a gentle smile, feeling strong arms catch you.

 

 

You woke up to the sound of snarling. Opening your eyes, you were just in time to watch Dwalin bury his weapon in the skull of a massive wolf-creature. _Warg_ , your muddled brain supplied. You idly wondered where the weird man and the rabbits had come from, feeling absurdly hungry at the sight of the fat animals.

Running.

Your head pounded, worse than your lungs, your vision having constant spots of black appearing, making you teeter unbalanced, tripping over your own feet. Dwalin was beside you, dragging you along, you noted, still feeling disconnected to your body. It was the oddest thing, your eye claimed his hand was wrapped around your, pulling hard enough to make you keep running, yet you could feel neither feet nor hand.

Hiding in a huddle behind a rock seemed like a weird strategy for escape, especially when your pursuers could smell you from miles away. You had opened your mouth to inform Thorin of that fact – even Kings needed telling off when they were acting like drunken louts, right? – when you were pulled along, running towards a different rock, where Gandalf’s pointy hat had just appeared.

You didn’t jump so much as flail down the dark hole the wizard pointed to. You heard something vaguely identifiable as a ‘bad’ sound, but you felt more than content to lie here, uncaring of the gasps around you. Someone dragged you away from where you’d landed. Blackness descended once more.

 

* * *

 

When Dwalin slid down the small incline, he gasped. Geisli was lying on her front, barely breathing it seemed to him, and her lower leg obviously broken, sticking out at an awkward angle.

“She didn’t land right,” Nori whispered, his face pale, but Dwalin hardly heard him, picking up her non-resisting form with a low growl. None of the Company dared protest.

 

* * *

 

“Dwa…lin,” you murmured, recognising the woodsy, masculine smell of him. Arms tightened around you. You whimpered. “It hurts,” you moaned, keeping your eyes shut tight when every step he took sent a spike of pain through your body.

“I know, sweetling,” he whispered, “we’ll get you sorted, don’t worry.”

 

You woke up once more, at the clatter of hooves. You could see nothing as your kin surrounded you.

Something hit your leg.

You screamed.

Blackness kindly fell once more.

 

Dwalin cursed, sending a harsh glare at Kíli when Geisli screamed in agony. Pushing his way through the throng of elves he marched up to Gandalf.

“We need to set her leg,” he shouted, drowning out whatever that blasted wizard was saying. The Elf – lord something or other, Dwalin _did not_ care – looked a little shocked. His eyes widened at the sight of the injury; Kíli’s accidental jostle hadn’t made it worse, but it was obvious that it was no simple fracture.

“This way,” the elf said. Dwalin wavered for a moment, but he had heard of the great healing skill of Elves, and the pained expression she wore, even unconscious, convinced him to follow. The rest of the Company trudged after him, for the moment united in worry that overcame their natural suspiciousness – or outright hatred, in Thorin’s case – of Elves.


	4. Chapter 4

Agony.

You woke to a world of agonizing fire, shouts you did not understand and strong hands holding you down. Something was poured down your throat, but you spluttered it back up rather than swallow, retching as the hands that had been holding your down turned you on your side.

 

* * *

 

 

“Stop it!” Dwalin roared, watching Geisli choke on whatever medicine the elf was trying to give her. Pushing the long-limbed fool out of his way, he picked up her smaller form, turning her face into his chest. Geisli whimpered.

 

* * *

 

 

The agony continued, but now you were being lifted rather than held down, and you recognized the smell of Dwalin’s tunic, overlaid with the acrid scent of fear and the metallic smell of blood, but still Dwalin. You clung to him, trusting him to keep you safe, protected, so far beyond caring about anything but making the fire stop burning that you did not know what words you were whimpering into his throat. Your fingers – you could feel your hand again, which seemed odd, for some reason – twisted in the fur that covered his shoulders. A hand was stroking your hair.

“Geisli, you need to drink the medicine,” he whispered, “please. It will make you feel better.”

The effort it took to open your eyes, to stare up at his worried – Dwalin was _worried_ about you _?_ – face, was nearly overwhelming.

“Med’cin?” you slurred. He nodded. “Hol… safe?” you hardly had the wherewithal to find the words, but somehow he knew what your mumbled syllables meant.

“I promise, you’ll be just fine. I’ll be right here, the whole time. Drink the medicine and go back to sleep, Geisli, hear me?” he whispered, his eyes wide and a little frightened, which made you frown. Dwalin was never frightened. Not even when he came in during the brawl of ’24, which resulted in four deaths, had Dwalin ever been frightened. Angry, yes – furious, rather – and capable of punching a dwarf through a wall, but never frightened. You nodded; you meant to, anyway, but your head never made its way up again, simply resting against the warmth of Dwalin’s chest. When he tilted your head for you, your mouth fell open though you struggled with swallowing the oily mixture that tasted like a mixture between the colour green and what you imagined Bofur’s socks would be like after a long day in the mines. You tried to smile.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin watched her eyes flutter closed once more, her breathing steady, before he turned his full glare on the Elf.

“Hold her steady, Master Dwarf,” the Elf said, completely ignoring Dwalin’s scowl in favour of cutting off Geisli’s boot, revealing a foot so dark and swollen Dwalin knew Óin would have recommended amputation before gangrene set in. The Elf tutted to himself, sliding the blades of his scissors up Geisli’s leg until Dwalin’s growl stopped him. Keen eyes found his own, sympathy in their gaze, but also implacable will. “I need to see the injury properly. Her leg is broken, and her ankle could be too – in fact I’m almost certain it is – and we need to set the bones quickly.” He kept cutting, moving the supple leather aside to reveal Geisli’s well-turned leg – well, it resembled Dwalin’s worst nightmare at the moment, but normally Geisli had very beautiful legs, he’d always thought, ever since he’d caught sight of her masterfully kicking a Dwarf in the gut during the infamous Woolly Bear Brawl of ’24. The bone of her lower leg had snapped, but not pierced her tough skin, which was a blessing. The black and purple foot revealed that there was some obstruction of blood-flow, which was not a blessing. The Elf frowned. Running his fingers lightly along the injury with his eyes closed – was this Elvish medicine??? – he hummed thoughtfully. Dwalin stared. The elf began chanting something in that bird language of theirs – Balin knew some of it, but Dwalin had never bothered – as his fingers moved with surety. Suddenly, there was a loud crack as the Elf pulled the leg bone back in place with a snap. Dwalin winced, looking down at Geisli’s serene face. Whatever else you could say about Elves, they had effective drugs, for sure. Dwalin didn’t think even poppymilk would have let her sleep calmly through that. “That was the easy part, master Dwarf,” the elf said, looking up to catch Dwalin’s questioning glance. His quick hands were splinting her leg with a few narrow iron rods wrapped with cloth, and then he turned his attention to Geisli’s foot.

“Can she keep it?” Dwalin asked. In his experience, injuries like that did not have good odds. He remembered Dáin’s foot after Azanulbizar; it had looked quite similar, and the healers had taken it off after three days of constant agony when it became clear that the limb was already rotting.

“She may never walk normally,” the elf cautioned, “but I believe it is not too late to save her foot…”

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin was pacing; the rest of the Company had taken up silent vigil outside the healing room where the Elf-Lord had brought Dwalin. When Geisli’s screams of agony abruptly cut off, Ori began silently weeping. Dori and Nori flanked him on either side. The Thief looked pale, holding hands with Bofur – they knew Geisli best of the assembled Dwarrow after all – who was trembling. Fíli and Kíli’s arms were tight around each other, and Thorin joined them with a slight rumble of sound intended to calm – them or himself, Thorin did not know, having recognised the look in Dwalin’s eyes when he almost attacked the Elf in the courtyard. Geisli was the warrior’s One, Thorin had no doubt, and he did not want to think about what might happen to his best friend if she died.

 

* * *

 

 

The horrific injury had been hidden beneath yards of bandages, leaving Geisli unable to move it while her bones attempted to fuse back together. Her foot, the elf had explained, might always turn a little outward; some of the smaller bones had been shattered into fine powder, and there was no way to remake them. Dwalin preferred not to think of the hour-long surgery they had performed. Mostly, he had kept his eyes glue on Geisli’s sweet face, watching her for any sign of discomfort. Her hand was lax, but still pressed against the fur above his heart, and he hardly dared move for fear of jostling her.

“I’ve sent for some of the ladies to bathe lady Geisli and dress her in clean clothes,” the elf said, touching Dwalin’s shoulder lightly. “While they take care of her, perhaps you might like a bath of your own?”

“Promised to stay,” Dwalin croaked, the first words he’d spoken in hours. His hands tightened.

“I swear your wife will be right here waiting for you when you return.” The words made Dwalin look up, surprised by the sympathy in the elf’s ancient eyes. His surprise stole the denial from his lips, his protest that Geisli was not his wife.

“She won’t wake up alone?” he asked, feeling near desperate to stay, but knowing he ought to take the elf’s advice – and report to Thorin, if nothing else.

“I’d be surprised if she woke up at all within the next day. Her body needs the rest, and so do you. I’ll have another bed brought in here…”

“No, I want to hold her,” Dwalin heard himself say. The elf nodded, the smile on his mouth giving away the fact that he had expected the offer would be denied.

“Just don’t jostle her leg, master Dwarf.” He admonished, before ducking out of the doorway. The space was soon taken by a pair of bustling she-elves, bringing in a wash basin and several pitchers of steamy water, as well as a bed-robe which was surprisingly Dwarf-sized. His cheeks aflame, Dwalin placed Geisli back on the bed, leaving with a brief nod in the direction of the two elves who gave him kind smiles in return.

 

* * *

 

 

“Geisli will walk again,” he reported, to great sighs of relief, when he appeared outside and realised that the Company had all but camped outside the door. “The Elf thinks she might even keep her foot.”

“Can we see her?” Nori asked. Dalin shook his head. The Thief’s face fell.

“They’re giving her a bath, Nori,” Dwalin explained, his ears glowing again. “We’ll be allowed to visit briefly before dinner. I have been told we ought to bathe in the meantime, so we don’t drag dirt into a sickroom.” Dwalin had obviously been told no such thing, but if _he_ was going to be getting naked in this Elven place, he’d certainly not be doing it without someone there as back-up. There was a smattering of agreement as the Dwarrow rose to their feet.

“This way, masters Dwarf,” a slip of a she-elf said. Dwalin caught Thorin’s eye, sharing one of their five-sentence-shrugs and followed, his oldest friend falling into step beside him.

 

* * *

 

 

“She’s your One,” Thorin said quietly, sitting beside Dwalin in the lukewarm pool they’d been offered for soaking. Dwalin stiffened, his blush reaching from the tip of his ears to the middle of his hairy chest at the words.

“How’d you…?” he protested half-heartedly. Thorin gave him another speaking look.

“Well, the elf told me that as her _husband_ – Dwalin, honestly – you would be allowed to stay in Geisli’s room, but the rest of us would be bought to the guest chambers.” Thorin whispered, equal parts exasperated and amused. Dwalin’s blush intensified.

“He said that, not I!” he claimed, scowling at Thorin’s impudent grin.

“Not like you put up much of a fight though, was it?” he winked, ducking out of the way of Dwalin’s meaty fist. Dwalin groaned, hiding his face in his hands.

“What do I do, Thorin?” he moaned.

“Wait for her to wake up,” Thorin offered, sagely lighting the pipe he had fished from his gear. Dwalin stared enviously. His own pipe had been in his saddlebag when his pony ran off with it. Thorin sighed, offering him a drag.

“And then apologise and hope she’ll understand it was an accident!” Dwalin smiled, suddenly feeling lighter.

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘Confess that you’re an idiot who is in love with her and ask for permission to court her’,” Thorin replied drily, stealing back the pipe. Dwalin groaned again. “She’s at least reasonably fond of you,” Thorin added philosophically. “Didn’t put up near any fight at all the night she woke up on your chest.” Dwalin punched his arm.

“Sometimes, I hate you, Thorin.”

“Likewise, Dwalin,” Thorin puffed once on the pipe before handing it over, “likewise.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special gratitude to Aunt Scripty on Tumblr, whose blog helps writers with all things injury related. https://scriptmedic.tumblr.com/

## Chapter 5

You felt weird. Floaty, almost, you decided after long deliberation. Your head felt floaty, though your body was telling you that you were not moving. Opening your eyes, you winced slightly at the bright sunlight streaming in through gently wafting curtains.

“…Dwalin?” you asked – croaked rather, almost not even recognizing your own rough voice. You wondered why his name was the first you called, about to ask when your memory chose to rear its head, bringing back a memory of Dwalin’s soft rumble telling you to drink some medicine.

“Geisli!” he exclaimed, making your turn your head slowly to the side where Dwalin was perched on a chair by your bed. “You’re awake!” he continued, making you wince at the volume. Dwalin grimaced. “How are you feeling?” he whispered. You thought about that for a while.

“Sore.” A bit more than sore, really, worse than when you’d taken a pummelling during practice bouts for certain. “Leg?” Stringing words together seemed wholly too much effort, you thought.

“Ahh, your leg was broken… but the Elf set it, and he thinks you’ll make a full recovery.” Dwalin muttered, staring at his fingers. You tried to reach for him, frowning when your arm merely flopped uselessly in his direction. Trying again, you managed to touch his hand, making Dwalin look up at you. His face was contorted in something you wanted to call anguish, making you fear for the others.

“Comp’ny?” you asked, pleased when he caught your fingers between his own, squeezing lightly.

“Everyone is fine,” he promised, falling silent. You stared at him. Dwalin was never lost for words, but he seemed to be struggling to say something now.

“Ah, the patient awakens,” someone exclaimed cheerfully. “Welcome to Rivendell, lady Geisli.” Turning your head, you caught sight of a tall man, realising who he must be by the points of his ears.

“Elf…?” you wondered; you’d never seen one before.

“Lord Elrond of Rivendell, Geisli,” Dwalin introduced. You still felt a little confused.

“I’m here to look at your foot,” the elf said kindly. Dwalin stood. You felt remarkably reluctant to let him go, but he freed himself from your grip with little effort. You scowled at the lack of strength in your body. “I was told you’d hurt your head, so please look this way,” he continued, letting Dwalin help you sit as he tested your eye response with a small candle. “Good,” Lord Elrond claimed, holding up a finger and making you follow the digit as he moved it back and forth. “I think your head will be fine, though you may feel some dizziness over the next few days.

“I’ll go tell the others you’re awake,” Dwalin said, putting your hand back on the bed and striding out of the door, “they’ve all been worried sick.” You flopped back onto the soft mattress, grateful that you didn’t have to expend the effort to hold yourself upright anymore.

The elf followed him out with his gaze, before chuckling lightly. “They may have been,” he confided lowly, as he began unwrapping your foot, “but your husband has been the most worried of all.” For a moment, his words made no sense, but then you felt your cheeks heat.

“Dwalin?” you asked, not sure which answer you were hoping for when the elf nodded, humming to himself as he looked at your foot. You glanced down once, but then looked away. It _was_ a foot; that was the extent of your ability to comprehend the mottled and swollen mess of flesh at the end of your leg.

“It’s going to hurt,” he warned, “do not be afraid to ask for medicine against the pain.” As soon as he said it, you became aware of a dull throbbing, which warned that sharp stabbing pains would probably join the party soon.

“Will I live?” you asked philosophically, staring at the wooden ceiling. The elf had the audacity to chuckle. You glared at him, though it was a pale imitation of your normal glare.

“You’ll be up and about in no time,” he smiled. You glared a little harder; an obvious healer’s falsity you’d never have believed. “Well, you will walk again, though it’ll be months before you’re allowed to lean any weight on the leg, let alone the foot. Within a year, though, you’ll definitely be able to walk unaided.” It was a bleak outlook, you thought, wondering how you’d return to your home – there was no way you could continue to Erebor, of course – and how you’d manage to live alone. Jofur might be persuaded to give you your job back, but the elf made it sound like you’d be unable to serve anyone for a long time, so you’d probably need a different source of income. You _might_ be able to support yourself with weaving, but you’d given that up years ago because being a barmaid simply paid better, so you were probably rusty behind a loom. Feeling tears threaten, you turned your face into the pillow, ignoring the elf’s chatter as he bandaged your foot again until it looked like a vaguely sock-shaped mass of cloth.

“Geisli!” Dwalin called, suddenly kneeling by your head. You felt him reach out to touch your shoulder. “Are you in a lot of pain, sweetling?” he asked. You shook your head; it hurt, but it was a distant concern compared to your fears.

“It’s been many years since I’ve treated a Dwarf for anything serious,” Elrond said, also studying you; his expression sympathetic and curious. “I’ve mixed up a few medicines, but I’m not sure how effective they will be for you,” he continued. “We’ll simply have to work it out by trying.”

“Do you want to go see the others?” Dwalin offered, seemingly scrambling for something to distract you; his fingers trembled lightly as he wiped away your tears, turning to the elf with a frown as he asked, “I am allowed to pick her up, aye?” You nodded, reaching for him at once.

“Yes, but when she gets tired take her back to bed.” Elrond nodded to you before leaving with one final admonishment to take the medicine when you needed it and not when the pain overwhelmed your stubbornness.

“Promise,” you swore, suddenly desperate to leave the bed. Dwalin helped you to sit back up, wrapping one arm around your back and carefully wedging the other one behind your knees to pick you up.

 

 

“Geis!” Nori cried, jumping up and rushing towards you. He seemed to teeter indecisively before you until you held your arms out for a hug. Nori very carefully hugged you, though Dwalin did not let go. Instead, the warrior sat down on a low bench, still cradling you on his lap – you blushed again when you remembered the elf’s assumption – and the rest of the Company swarmed around you.

When you had laughed at Bofur’s bad jokes, ruffled Kíli’s hair – promising that you didn’t blame him for bumping your leg; an episode you didn’t actually remember – and accepted Thorin’s quiet well-wishes, you fell asleep against Dwalin’s wide chest, utterly exhausted.

 

 

Holding Geisli was as wondrous as the first time, Dwalin thought – better, actually, for the way she snuggled into his chest when the general relieved hugging was done. He had had to stop himself glowering at Bofur, whose hug went on _far_ too long. When she fell silent, he looked down to see her watching the Company with a soft smile, her eyes slowly slipping closed as she drifted off in his arms once more.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

As the days passed, you grew stronger. The pain was managed quite effectively – you’d woken up whimpering the first night, but Dwalin had been there to help you sip the bitter tea that let you sleep without feeling your foot slowly mending. You had yet to get up the courage to ask him about the lie he’d told the Elves, feeling a blush stain your cheeks every time you thought about Dwalin-as-your-husband. Of course, if Dwalin didn’t _know_ about the husband-theory – a thought that occurred to you late on the second day of being awake – bringing it up would only embarrass the both of you. On the other hand, you might share a laugh about it?

You didn’t need sponge-baths anymore, able to sit in a small tub with a seat, leaving your bad leg to rest on the wide lip of the tub to avoid getting the bandages wet, and wash yourself, but Nengelien – honestly the closest thing you had to a female friend right now – was very kind and helpful and you felt bad for not accepting her assistance. Instead, you chattered while you washed, Nengelien telling you all about her crush on some minstrel who was apparently the handsomest Elf Nengelien knew – and who had no idea she existed at all, according to her. It was funny, you thought, how you’d gone from a barmaid/bouncer/agony aunt in Ered Luin to an agony aunt for _Elves_ of all people, in a sun-dappled valley called Imladris. Nengelien had taught you a few words in elvish, her silver laugh when you mastered the pronunciation making you feel better about your situation – at least until she asked you questions about your brawny ‘husband’ that you couldn’t answer. You had plenty of stories about Dwalin, of course, but they mostly involved him in either an official capacity – Nengelien had been near fainting when you went into slightly too vivid details about the brawl of ’24 – or as a patron – Nengelien loved the fact that he played a viol, even if you had to admit you heard it only rarely. Dwalin wasn’t very confident about playing in public and it usually took hours of wheedling from Nori before he’d consent to relieving your ears of whatever misery Jofur’s current ‘bard’ was inflicting.  You always gave him a free pint for that, though you didn’t think he knew, losing himself in the music and ignoring everything around him.

 

* * *

 

 

“You still haven’t spoken to Geisli,” Thorin guessed, when Dwalin flopped down on the bench beside him. Dwalin simply groaned, stealing Thorin’s pipe.

“I tried!” he exclaimed, not at all cowed by Thorin’s glower. “The words just… don’t happen.”

“You realise the _elves_ have probably referred to you as her husband, don’t you?” Thorin wondered, wrestling the pipe back for a long drag. Dwalin blanched.

“How does such a small lady turn me into such a big coward?” he moaned. Thorin chuckled, punching him lightly on the arm.

“Must be love.” Dwalin glared at him. “I’ll need to discuss her care with Elrond – and find a way to repay him – and Geisli needs to know where she stands.” Thorin sighed, and Dwalin knew he was wondering how they’d pay the elf – most of them hadn’t brought a lot of gold along for the journey after all, and a few money pouches had been lost with the ponies.

“Send a letter to Dís; she might be able to come up with a plan of repayment.” Dwalin suggested. Thorin puffed thoughtfully.

“If you haven’t spoken to her by tomorrow night, Dwalin, _I_ will.” Thorin threatened seriously. “If you want her to be your Lady, I’ll do the ceremony before we leave Rivendell, but you haven’t unending time to woo her. Once the moon is right for the reading, we’ll be out of here as quickly as our feet can carry us.” With that, he rose from the bench, leaving Dwalin to the company of his own thoughts running in circles.

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin barged into your room while sweet Nengelien was helping you wash. You both shrieked in sudden fright. For a moment, no one moved, Dwalin staring at you, your hands automatically shielding your breasts from view – a bit of a pointless task considering the size of one in comparison to the other – until Nengelien flung a towel around your shoulders. Dwalin cursed loudly, whirling to stand facing the wall, but you’d already seen the arousal in his breeches, hardly concealed by his tunic, as well as the stunned lust in his eyes.

“Dwalin!” you squeaked.

“Sorry!” he barked back, leaning against the wall. Nengelien shifted slightly. The flush in her cheeks told you she too had seen Dwalin’s reaction to your nakedness – only _she_ thought it was perfectly normal. _Mahal wept_ , you thought, _we really need to sort this out._ “I- err,” Dwalin paused, but you could see his ears turning red with embarrassment, “I forgot you were having a bath. I needed to speak with you,” he finished lamely, obviously wincing as he remained facing the wall.

Pouring the last of the clean water over your skin, rinsing off the soapy suds, Nengelien helped you get out of the small tub You’d gotten used to the indignity of being picked up so often – and by such fragile-looking arms as Nengelien’s, which hid wiry strength – and simply accepted being set down on your bed and handed a clean robe to cover yourself. With a smile, Nengelien made herself scarce, taking the tub with her.

“I am decent, Dwalin,” you murmured, watching his stiff shoulders. Dwalin chuckled lightly, though you didn’t think he found you funny.

“I’ve been meaning to speak with you,” he rumbled, turning around to face you while still leaning against the wall. You nodded, drawing your comb through the wet tangles of your hair.

 

* * *

 

 

Staring at the waterfall of gold, shiny and _perfect_ , Dwalin wanted to kiss her, steal the comb from her hands and discover the silky softness for himself. For a moment, his words stuck in his throat, imagining the feel of that hair running through his fingers.

“There was a… misunderstanding,” he began, closing his eyes to block out the distraction, “when we arrived.”

 

* * *

 

You’d already surmised as much, wondering why he looked so pained.

“The elf – er… Elrond – thought I was your husband.”

“Dwalin,” you tried, but he held up a hand for silence.

“I’m sorry, I knew it was wrong of me to go along with it, but I couldn’t… I just _couldn’t_ handle leaving you alone when you were hurt like that,” he murmured, making your heart flutter in response. _Could he be saying_ … “I need you to be safe, and happy, and, and,” he was babbling; it was oddly endearing. “Oh, Maker, I’m doing this all wrong,” Dwalin cursed low as he whirled around, hitting his forehead against the wall.

“Dwalin, stop it!” Your voice came out a touch more breathy than intended, but the command was clear; it was a tone that usually worked on even the most hammered Dwarf, after all. “Come here!” you demanded, marvelling at the fact that he followed your order, shuffling his feet reluctantly, but he _did_ end up standing in front of you, looking down at his boots like he was expecting a scolding. “Dwalin, look at me,” you whispered, taking one of his large hands in your own. “Please?” you added, when his head remained bowed.

“Geisli, I’m so-”

“No, you’re not,” you smiled, as a sudden flash of clarity crossed your mind. Dwalin flushed, opening his mouth to offer another apology. You squeezed his hand. “You _want_ to be my husband, Dwalin.” It was a clear statement; you felt the truth of it deep in your bones. Dwalin reared back as if struck, but this time you did not let him pull away from your grip. “And I would be your wife,” you added, certain that you were blushing as fiercely as he was. Dwalin froze. “if you’ll have me, Dwalin Fundinul, I would court you.” You felt proud that you’d managed to say it, even if the lack of reaction was starting to worry you. “You make me feel safe, and protected, and… beautiful,” you continued, nearly begging for him to believe you, “I love you.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dwalin thought he had wandered into a dream. She couldn’t - _could not_ \- be saying all those lovely things, couldn’t _mean_ them… _could she?_ He stared, completely overwhelmed. Those hazel eyes were smiling up at him and he _knew_ he was supposed to respond, but he couldn’t find any words. Geisli’s face fell. Dwalin panicked. Scooping her up, carefully not jostling her leg, he held her close, cupped her face to make her look up at him once more. The pain he felt seeing her tears shocked him into action. He kissed her. It was rushed and terribly uncoordinated – it had been far too long since he’d practiced kissing anyone – and it was the best feeling ever. Dwalin’s hands tightened, wrapped in golden stands of silk.

“Maralmizu,” he whispered, even if Khuzdul wasn’t meant to be spoken anywhere outsiders could overhear. Geisli melted. This time, the kiss was softer, loving, _perfect_ … and then it got _better_. “Marry me,” he blurted out, suddenly desperate to make her understand just how much he needed her. “Before we leave Rivendell. I want you to be my lady-wife, Geisli.” As courtships went, it was terribly rushed – his amad would have scolded him… or believed there was a pebble on the way… but amad had been dead since Smaug took their home – but Dwalin did not want to wait for an uncertain ‘future-time’; they were marching off to face a Dragon, there was no telling when – or if – he’d come back. Geisli wrapped her arms around his shoulders, smiling into the kiss.

“Yes.”

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

The ceremony was short. Thorin was standing in for your father, while Balin stood for Dwalin’s; the Company split evenly to either side of the circle. You wore a simple robe Nengelien had found and helped you re-sew until it fit properly. Dwalin just wore his normal garb, though he had polished all the metal and weaponry he carried. Nori had been given the honour – he and Bofur had pulled straws – of carrying you into the circle, because Lord Elrond still wasn’t keen on you walking anywhere, even though Bifur had carved a beautiful cane for you as a wedding present.

Thorin raised the hammer – you had wondered how you’d get hold of a hammer, but Dwalin’s war-hammer was a reasonable substitute to your mind – the signal for the rest of them to gather around, as his powerful voice told the story of the first Dwarrow cowering from the Hammer and being accepted by the grace of Eru as his Children. Usually, the whole thing would have been in Khuzdul, but Thorin had apologetically informed you that due to location – and the interest of the few Elves you had invited – you’d have to do the whole thing in Westron. It didn’t matter to you, feeling your heart filled with joy a you stared across the circle at Dwalin.

Thorin lowered the hammer, stepping silently into the circle. You held your breath. There hadn’t been much time for forging a contract, so the deal was simple. Thorin raised his head.

“Today, we witness the joining of two Stones, the merging of blood in the form of Dwalin Fundinul and Geisli Kiuldul.” No one spoke, not even the Elves, who seemed aware that any sound made would be a show of great disrespect. “Together, they have agreed to live together, to take joy in one another. To share pain and grief evenly, shouldering the burdens of life by working together. They have agreed to abide by each other, to create whatever family the Maker and the Queen of Life will grant them, to keep love in their hearts unto the ends of their days. They have sworn to uphold the honour of their families, acting with dignity and valour.” You could feel your heart hammering, seeing little aside from Dwalin’s blue eyes above Thorin’s shoulder. “They have promised to love one another when they are together and when they are apart. Today, they vow to support each other, to share their dreams and to respect their differences.” Holding tightly to Nori’s arm as he takes most of your weight, you move into the centre of the circle. Making sur you’re properly balanced on one leg and your new cane, Nori steps back, taking his place next to Bofur.

“I choose you, Dwalin Fundinul. To stand by your side and sleep in your arms. To be joy to your heart and food for your soul. To learn with you and grow with you, even as time and life change us both. I promise to laugh with you in good times and struggle alongside you in bad times. I promise to respect you and cherish you as an individual, a partner, and an equal, knowing that we do not complete, but complement each other.” You say the words loudly, proudly, enjoying the small burst of laughter you catch in his eyes when you mention sleeping in his arms. Dwain steps up, smiling as he speaks his vow.

“What I possess in this world, I give to you. I will keep you and hold you, comfort and tend you, protect you and shelter you, for all the days of my life. Loving what I know of you, trusting what things I will discover. I will respect you as a person, a partner, and an equal. There is little to say that you haven’t already heard, and little to give that is not already freely given. Before you asked me, I was yours and I am devoted to you in every way. I marry you with no hesitation or doubt, and my commitment to you is absolute.” As he spoke, he walked around you, circling you as a symbol that he was committed to protecting you for the rest of your days, an older custom you had not expected – though you probably should have, marrying a nobledwarf. You blushed, hearing the cheering of both halves of the circle, catching sight of Balin’s proud smile.

Eventually, the Company ran out of breath – it was traditional to cheer for as long as possible, as the families attempted to out-joy each other – and Thorin spoke once more.

“Dwalin Fundinul,” You had never expected to be married by the _King_ , but the regal voice and bearing could not be denied. “Do you take the daughter of Kiuld to be your wife from this moment on, to have as your own in the halls of your forebears?” Dwalin knelt, and you wished you could have stood here with your adad beside you instead of Thorin, imagining the proud smile on his face as he watched this warrior pledge himself to you.

“I do take Geisli for my wife, my own, my One. I accept all that she is, all that she was, and all that she will be. As Mahal spoke.” Dwalin spoke the ceremonial acceptance and you felt like crying at the emotion in his eyes when he glanced at you.

“Geisli Kiuldul,” Thorin exclaimed solemnly, turning to you. “This Dwarf, Dwalin Fundinul, wishes to take you as his wife. What say you?”

“I do take Dwalin for my husband, my own, my One. I accept all that he is, all that he was, and all that he will be. As Mahal spoke.” You did not kneel, but your words were no less solemn than Dwalin’s. Turning to you, Dwalin rose to his feet, clasping your hands with a smile. As he spoke each of the Seven Blessings, you repeated the words back to him.

_Blessed are you Mahal who has created everything for the glory of Eru._

_Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the earth, the mountains and the hills._

_Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the gems and metals in the heart of the mountain._

_Blessed are you Mahal who fashioned the Dwarrow and the seven houses._

_Blessed are you Mahal who taught the Dwarrow the skill to work the gems and metals in the heart of the mountain._

_Blessed are you Mahal who gladdens our Halls through his Children._

_Blessed are you Mahal who gladdens groom and bride._

When the last syllable left your mouth, Dwalin kissed you, at once forceful and tender, bone-meltingly lovely. Around you, the Company broke out in loud cheering, those who still had them bringing out musical instruments and beginning to play a joyous dancing tune. You laughed, staring up at your new husband. Traditionally, the ceremony was supposed to be followed by seven days of feasting, but you had decided to do without it, in favour of spending the two days remaining before midsummer would enable Lord Elrond to read the moon-runes, with your husband.

 

Dwalin had carried you back to bed to the chorus of loud cheering, and you were now basking in afterglow, lying half-on, half-off him as he played with your hair. The sound of music and laughter drifted in through the open windows; the Elves had joined in, you thought, the softer sound of their music mingling with what you believed was Fíli or Kíli playing a fiddle. Dwalin’s fingers ran slowly through your hair. You had had to promise Elrond to be very careful of your foot, but you had stood firm with both the elven healer _and_ your new husband in demanding that you have a proper wedding night.

“Amrâlimê,” you whispered into his skin, making a goofy smile appear on his face.

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

Waving goodbye was the hardest thing you’d ever done, standing alone and watching them all go off without you. Dwalin had carried you out of your room, and you’d said your goodbyes before they’d snuck off, watching them disappear into the Wilds as the sun rose behind you.

 

* * *

 

“The Dwarrow are gone, my Lord,” you heard someone say, after you’d made your way slowly back to your room. Bifur had fashioned a pair of crutches for you, which you could use to get around until Elrond allowed you to switch to the cane he had made.

“They would not have taken lady Geisli,” Elrond replied, “she cannot walk the paths they have taken.”

“I would not be so foolish as to try, my Lord Elrond,” you called. “My King gave his orders; for me to stay here, to heal, to await news of my beloved kin.” When the Elf opened the door to see you sitting calmly on your bed, wearing one of the dresses Nengelien’s friend had made for you, you could have sworn he was amused.

“Good morrow, my lady,” Elrond greeted, as he did every day, “how is your foot?”

“Much the same,” you grumbled. “I do not sleep half so well when I am alone as when Dwalin is here,” you frowned. He smiled lightly.

“No, it is difficult to sleep alone if you have become used to the presence of another,” he mused. Neither of you spoke as he unwrapped the bandages, revealing your foot. It was no longer swollen, and the flesh was beginning to look like your normal skin-tone again, no longer a mottled mess of black and blue. “This is looking much better. Soon you may wear only the rigid braces and reduce much of the bandaging.”

 

* * *

 

 

You’d been in Rivendell for more than a month now, and though you tried not to worry about the Company’s travels, you often found yourself staring at the peaks of the Misty Mountains, wishing to fly beyond them, find your friends, your husband.

“Come watch the minstrels with me, mellon,” Nengelien smiled, dragging you off to one of the smaller courtyards. You knew she mainly wanted to go to stare at Lindir, the minstrel – one of Lord Elrond’s favourites – she had fallen in love with, but you usually went along, enjoying the music. It was different to the music you were used to, for sure, but it suited the Elves and the place you had found yourself.

“Why do you not speak with him?” you murmured, nudging her silently as you nodded your head towards Lindir.

“I would not dare!” she cried – the Elves around you pretended not to be eavesdropping – blushing wildly. You smirked. She had been amazed when she realised that you were not married to Dwalin, but also quietly supportive of your newfound happiness. “He would not be looking to me,” she muttered, staring at the lute-playing singer who was currently looking at the elleth who played the harp. “Lindir only ever looks at the other musicians,” she finished glumly. Suddenly, the joy of listening to the impromptu concerto was gone, as you watched Nengelien walk away, her pace not quite a run. Navigating your crutches, you knew she was too far to hear you when you called her name, but you called for her anyway.

“Nengelien!”

“Are you in need of assistance, my lady?” someone asked behind you.

“I am afraid, master Elf, that my friend did not take my teasing as it was meant,” you sighed, turning laboriously to look at the elf behind you. “Oh.” Before you stood Lindir, still holding his lute as he looked at you with concern in his grey-green eyes.

“ _Mae le ovannen, hiril_ ,” he bowed, “We have not been introduced. I am Lindir, minstrel to Lord Elrond.”

“Geisli,” you replied, “guest here.” Beginning to make your way back towards the main hall – it would be nearly time for dinner before you arrived, even if you were getting faster at moving with the crutches.

“May I ask what troubles you?” Lindir easily kept pace with you.

“I meant to encourage my friend Nengelien, Master Lindir,” you replied, “but she did not hear my words as such.”

“Nengelien is one of the junior healers, is she not?” he asked. You nodded. “I have seen her with you. I think your friendship will survive this small falling out.” You gave him a small smile. “She is fond of music?”

“She likes to listen, watch the musicians,” you mumbled, “but often she is too shy to show her enjoyment.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Lady Geisli, Mistress Nengelien,” Lord Elrond greeted when you appeared for dinner a few days later. “You are just in time. Minstrel Lindir has offered to entertain through dinner – a rare treat. Come, enjoy the feast.” He waved you into a pair of open seats, and though you loaded her plate, elbowing her to eat a few of the delicious morsels, Nengelien spent most of the meal – rabbit stew and a salad of summer greens served with golden potatoes dipped in butter – staring at Lindir. You shared a look with Lord Elrond, flicking your eyes towards the minstrel, who seemed oblivious to the attention if not for the way he would glance towards you every few minutes, clearly watching Nengelien’s joy.

 

* * *

 

The Day you were allowed to swap your crutches for your cane did not bring as much freedom of movement as you had hoped. The more than two months spent recuperating meant your bad leg was too weak to take much walking, and you still weren’t allowed to rest all your weight on it for more than a few minutes a day. Autumn would soon be ending, you knew, watching the leaves change. In your heart, you prayed for the safety of those who would be looking upon the Mountain by now, who would soon be walking the halls of your forebears.

“You are pensive, my lady,” Lord Elrond said kindly, coming to a halt beside you on the balcony you most often chose as a vantage point when you felt the longing to go east the most, staring at the distant mountains. “Your people are hardy. They will have come through the Mountains and the Forest.”

“I pray you are correct, my Lord,” you replied, “but today I am not praying only for their safety.”

“I had wondered when you would know,” he murmured.

“That I am bearing?” you asked. “I have suspected for some time now. Today, I am sure.”

“Congratulations,” he offered, with genuine warmth.

“Thank you…” you gave him a smile, before your eyes turned east once more. “I wish I could tell him,” you sighed.

“You will meet again, I am sure,” Elrond offered, before he was gone with a whisper of silk against the stone floor.

 

* * *

 

 

“The Mountain of Erebor has been reclaimed for the Line of Durin!” the raven crowed, flying overhead one morning as you sat at the table for morning meal, enjoying the fluffy rolls and honeyed milk your growing pebble seemed to like in the morning, as long as you drank a cup of ginger tea before rising from bed. The sound of Balin’s voice coming from the bird’s mouth startled you, making you knock over your goblet in shock. _The Mountain…was reclaimed??_

“Reclaimed…?” you whispered, staring at the black bird.

“Geisli!” it croaked, the voice now Dwalin’s, sounding so excited that you half-expected to be able to turn around and fling yourself into his arms. “Smaug has been killed!”

 

* * *

 

 

“I wish to go to Erebor, Lord Elrond, to join my family,” you stated it calmly, a few days after the Yule Feasts would have begun in Ered Luin. You had spent nearly six moons in total in Rivendell, five of them since your marriage.

“I do not think you can walk all that way, Geisli,” he replied, studying you, the way you still leaned on your cane.

“I would ask for your loan of a pony, supplies for the journey.” You retorted, your mind made up.

“It is too soon.” Elrond stated with finality. “A few more months of healing and you may walk without the cane.”

“In a few months it will not be safe,” you retorted, one hand moving to your belly, not yet showing much of the pebble growing slowly inside. “I shall reach my seventh moon if I wait that long, and the pebble may not live through a journey then.” The Elven healer frowned.

“But you are only five months along; you have another seven before the birth,” he protested.

“You do not know much of our bodies, my Lord, for all that you are a well-trained healer. I do think I am the first bearing Dwarf you have followed this closely,” you chuckled, though you were serious about wanting to leave. Time was running out. “A pebble is most vulnerable between the 7th and 10th moons, at which time the mother does very little, relying on her husband to do all the work. It is said in our legends that the pebble turns from a stone into a living dwarfling in those moons, a delicate process which is easily disturbed. If I give my foot another two months to heal, my child will be born in Rivendell, for when it is safe for me to do more than walk slowly across flat floors, I shall be too large and tired to make the trip.”

“And you wish for your child to be born in Erebor,” Elrond nodded. You smiled.

 

* * *

 

 

Seeing the Mountain was awe-inspiring; watching the bustle of busy Dwarrow coming in and out of the Gates. You knew the moment you were spotted; riding behind and surrounded by Elves as you were. Nengelien had demanded to go with you, and one of Lord Elrond’s sons had kindly agreed to be your guard. You had travelled first to the Halls of Thranduil, and the Elvenking had given you a further 6 Elves, riding on elks as an escort.

“Balin!” you cried, spotting familiar white hair among the crowd. Pushing your small pony forwards you waved until he spotted you.

“Geisli!” he called, jaw dropping as he stared at you. Elladan swung down from his horse, putting his hands around your waist and lifting you off your mount. You had tried to tell him that you were perfectly able of doing so yourself, but none of your Elven guards seemed to listen to you when it came to such things, and you’d given up on making his treat you like you weren’t made of spun glass before you’d even made it through the Mountains. You felt the pebble move slowly. There still wasn’t much of anything to see, to the inexperienced eye, but you realised that Balin had spotted something different about the way you moved; he was staring at you with a puzzled expression. Striding towards him, you clasped his arm. “It is good to see you, lass,” he whispered, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “Dwalin has been growling about returning to fetch you for weeks.” You grinned.

“Geisli…!” You pushed past Balin to stand before Dwalin, who was staring at you as though you were a dream.

“Dwalin!” you cried, reaching for him. Dwalin ran to you, picking you up in his strong arms, pressing his lips against yours in a kiss you had dreamed of for months. Wrapping your arms around him with a laugh, you returned the kiss with delight, feeling the first stirrings of desire in the pit of your stomach. Tangling your hands in his hair, you pressed yourself closer to his bulk, enjoying the heat of him, the firmness of his muscles, the strength of his arms around you.

“Amrâlimê,” he mumbled, pressing his forehead against yours as he set you back on your feet. Then he stiffened.

“Dwalin?” you whispered apprehensively. Dwalin fell to his knees, pressing his face against your belly, his arms tight around your back. Running your fingers over his head, scratching into his hair, you held him, feeling the dampness of his tears against your middle.

“Nadad?” Balin called, stepping up to put his hand on Dwalin’s shoulder. You smiled at him.

“Geisli…” Dwalin nearly sobbed your name. “Geisli… Oh, amrâlimê…”

“Hush, love, all is well,” you murmured, stroking his head, calming him down. One of his hands moved from your back, tracing slowly around your hip until it pressed against your belly, warm and gentle. “Oh!” you gasped, staring down at him just as Dwalin’s head snapped up to look at you, tears still visible in his eyes. “Say something else,” you whispered, “she likes your voice.”

“You’re…” Balin whispered, almost disbelieving.

“Hello, my wee pebble,” Dwalin murmured against your belly. “I’m your adad,” he stroked softly over the spot where your daughter had kicked, laughing in delight when she repeated the motion. “This is your uncle, **nâthith** ,” he said hoarsely, catching Balin’s hand and pressing it against you. You laughed when your daughter returned the pressure. Looking up, you saw tears flowing down Balin’s cheeks, his smile wider than his face.

“Congratulations, sister,” Balin smiled, pressing his forehead against yours in the ancient blessing of kin. Dwalin slowly got to his feet, his happiness bubbling forth as he picked you up again, swinging you around as he laughed.

“Lady Geisli,” the voice made you look towards the gate, staring at the gentle smile on your King’s face. Dwalin turned around to face him.

“My Geisli is bearing!” he announced proudly, squeezing you against his side. His other hand travelled across your body, coming to rest protectively against your small belly.

“A blessing from the Maker!” Thorin called, to great cheers from the surrounding Dwarrow. You leaned against your husband, feeling at home once more. “Lady Geisli Lifebringer… Welcome…” he spread his arms, indicating the Mountain behind him, “to Erebor!”

 


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some years AFTER the Quest ;) 
> 
> request for -waythe- on Tumblr

## Chapter 9 – Epilogue

“Stop, Thief!” he bellowed, making you put on an extra burst of speed. Turning corners, ducking down alleys, and clambering across rooftops, you did your best to escape, know just who was coming for you. Dwalin Fundinul, the Captain of the Guard, and known as a tireless pursuer. Of course, he had good reason to want to catch you, you thought with a smirk, staring down at the axe you held, the head engraved with the runes that spelled its name. _Keeper_. Sniggering to yourself, you turned another corner, ducking through the window of an empty house and out an upstairs escape hatch, ambling silently across the flat roof, leaping to the other side of the street with practised ease. Sauntering along as though you were the most innocent pebble Mahal had ever made, you congratulated yourself too early.

A meaty fist shot from the mouth of a small alley and the next thing you knew, your back was slammed against the wall, Keeper’s mate pointed at your throat by its enraged owner.

“Gotcha!” he crowed. Pressing his body firmly against yours, one hand holding the axe and the other caught the fist you swung at him easily.

“Oh, Mister Guardsman,” you simpered, “I’m so dreadfully sorry. Isn’t there some way I could make you forget this ever happened?” you murmured sultrily, licking your lips slowly. He was good-looking, for sure; tumbling Dwalin Fundinul would be no hardship. You wondered if he was as honourable as they said, or if he would take your meaning, accept your offer. Rubbing your hips lightly against his, you were pleased to find him not unaffected by your little display. Dwalin growled low in his throat, picking Keeper from your grasp and returning it to its harness.

“Maybe,” he purred, leaning in slowly. You nipped his lip. When the axe moved slightly, you deepened the kiss as a reward, wishing your hands were free to roam across his bulky physique. Dwalin was holding you against the wall effortlessly, seemingly content to kiss you as he thrust lightly against your body. The friction was making itself know, fanning the fires of lust in your body. “And what would someone like you offer in return for that?” he asked, drawing back. You nearly pouted in disappointment, wanting to keep kissing him. On the other hand, you also wanted more. Rubbing yourself against him in response, you were pleased by the groan he couldn’t hold back.

“What would someone like you want?” you whispered, the axe preventing you from leaning in for more sinful kisses. Dwalin was thrusting lightly against you, in time with your rubbing; the illicit pleasure was intense.

“You,” he growled, slanting his mouth across yours. The axe disappeared, but he held you in place easily as you wrapped your legs around his hips. When your hand snaked in between you, he caught it deftly, placing it above your head with its fellow, his large fist wrapped securely around your wrist, his other hand tugging your laces undone, pushing into your trousers to find you hot and slick and ready for him. Dwalin groaned into your mouth. You returned the lustful sound when one of his thick fingers began pushing into your tightness, cursing the limiting trousers you were wearing. When Dwalin pulled his fingers from you – far too quickly, you thought, protesting – and showed your trousers down slightly, you hissed at the feel of the rough stonework against your naked buttocks. Leaning in, you bit him lightly, tugging on one large ear with your teeth. “Turn around,” he ordered brusquely, pushing your legs down from his hips. “Both hands on the wall,” he continued, “and spread your legs for me.” The dark gruffness of his voice tingled down your spine, complying with his demands easily, pushing your arse back at him, lightly brushing against the straining erection he was sporting. “Wanton wee thing, aren’t you,” he murmured, stacking your neck with his lips and teeth; you felt him undo his pants behind you, two fingers returning to play with your body, stretching you wide but moving carefully. Dwalin groaned into your shoulder. When his fingers left you, he wrapped that arm around you, the wet fingers moving down to play with the small ruby in front of your forge.

“Gonna give me that big hammer?” you asked breathlessly, gasping when he thrust the head into you, parting your flesh with ease.

“All in good time, lass,” he rumbled, drawing back a little before surging forward once more. “You’re a tight one, I’ll give you that,” he murmured, nipping at your neck as his fingers flew across your needy flesh, easing the way for his thick tool.

On the fourth thrust, he buried all of himself in you, both of you groaning in pleasure at the exquisite feeling.

Keeping your hands on the wall for leverage, you thrust back against him, stilling when he gripped your hip, speeding up his thrusts gradually. You moaned. Dwalin pumped into you hard, but you took everything he gave you, mewling for more.

“Fuck, harder, Guardsman!” you moaned brokenly, each thrust shattering your words. Dwalin growled in your ear, with a swift flick catching your ruby between two fingers, rubbing rhythmically. You keened, your back bowing against him. Dwalin’s hand came up to muffle your shouts, leaving your hip. Taking advantage of the freedom to move, you thrust yourself back against him, snapping your hips forward to hump against his fingers in the next heartbeat. Dwalin’s strength set a brutal pace, his moans loud in your ear as his rhythm began to falter. Speeding up his fingers – your own fingers found your nipples through your shirt, twisting and pinching them hard in time with his thrust – Dwalin moaned in your ear.

“Come for me, Thief,” he growled, nipping at your neck. You briefly wondered if you’d been waiting for permission before you flew apart, thinking nothing more as you slumped against the wall, Dwalin’s roar of completion muffled in your shoulder.

 

You leaned weakly against the wall in front of you, enjoying the coolness of the green stone on your heated skin. You were glad of Dwalin’s strength, his arms keeping him from crushing you. When his hammer slipped out of you, you whined softly, feeling empty. Dwalin chuckled behind you, his hand wiping his seed from between your legs, rubbing slowly against your flesh to make you shiver against him. You felt him moving behind you, sorting out his own clothing swiftly, before pulling your trousers back up your hips, tying the laces in front of you.

“So, Guardsman,” you murmured, turning to lean against the stone as you smirked at him, “did you like your birthday present?” Dwalin blushed deeply. You knew from experience just how far down the red spread, wrapping your fingers in his chest harness and pulling him back to your mouth for a satisfied kiss.

“You’ve a dirty mind, my Geisli,” he rumbled, wrapping his arms around you with a soft smile. “But yes, I did. First time I’ve done that on the job,” his blush intensified, but you simply smiled smugly. You’d already known he was too honourable to take advantage of someone in his power like that, which was why you’d come up with this little plan – Nori had been gleefully helpful in planning your ‘escape route’ and assured you that the alley would be perfectly suitable for your purpose of seduction.

“Good,” you murmured, kissing him a few more times. “Want to go home with me or should we fetch little Geira from Dori’s?” Dwalin looked torn for a moment, but when you rubbed your hips against him once more, his resolve hardened with the interested twitch in his hastily done up pants.

“Home,” he growled, smacking your buttock lightly, “you wee minx!” You laughed happily, taking his hand and leaving the small alley.

“Home, then, husband,” you purred, making Dwalin wrap his arm around you and give you a bristly kiss on the cheek.

“Aye, wife, home,” he replied, keeping his arm around your shoulders as you walked through the halls of Erebor together.

 


End file.
